


Foundations

by Spooks, thesuninside



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Nogitsune, Spark Stiles Stilinski, but like really light on canon, the sheriff's name is John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 03:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13402380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spooks/pseuds/Spooks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesuninside/pseuds/thesuninside
Summary: The animals at the clinic are behaving mysteriously.  Stiles figures he should go ask Derek, who knows things about stuff.  A Situation Occurs.~~~~~~~~~~~Spooks:  Yanno, I can't believe that for a show set in California, they didn't do anything with natural disasters.





	Foundations

“What’s wrong with Pringles?”  Stiles had to ask.  He had to.  Because listen—

 “I don’t know, she’s been like that since yesterday.  It’s not me,” Scott said.

 Pringles, she of the excitingly chimera-weird blotchy colored face and four wiggly kittens, who normally made beseeching pawing and weird motor-meows at anyone who would walk past, stared balefully out at Stiles when he crouched by her cage.  Then she batted her fuzziest black and brown bundle of fluff back behind her and full on glared at him.  A paw extended in claw stretchy warning. 

“Okay, okay!” Stile backed up.  “Maybe it’s me too.”

“Maybe she’s just cranky.  Deaton said he’d check her when he got back, and to make sure she had plenty of water and smelled okay.  Seemed okay.  Smell counts though,” Scott said.  He was making a face, a bad one, while he scooped a kenneled Persian’s tiny litter box.  “Oh gross, she’s got poop butt.”

“Benefits of wolf nose right there,” Stiles said.  “At least there’s no dogs right now, right?”

“I should make you—”

“Deaton doesn’t pay _me_.”

“You’re my best friend.”

“The _very best._ I’m here on a Saturday morning, helping you not be bored, talking with you about Pringles the grump cat,” Stiles pointed out.

“They’re all a little grumpy,” Scott said.  “But, then again—”

“If you had a fluffy butt—hey, if you ever figure out full wolf, maybe you will!”

“Gross.”

“You know it, bro.  But seriously,” Stiles had to take a second here.  “Maybe it’s a thing.  Is this recent?  A shift in behavior?”

Scott dropped his t-shirt collar from where he’d ringed it up around his nose like a make-shift gas mask to make an _I’m thinking_ face.  “I guess?”

Stiles magnanimously lugged over fresh litter, even though he knew Scott could do it one-pinkied.  “Maybe it means something.  Animals acting weird can be a sign.  It has been before.”

“You—just want to do research, don’t you?” Scott asked.  It was definitely a question.  Like he couldn’t understand his friend, his pudding cup bro, his litter lugger.

Sometimes Stiles thought yeah, maybe Scott didn’t.  “I don’t _want_ to do research—well okay, I like research.  But I mostly don’t _want_ to be taken by surprise.  Maybe instead of casting a really wide net, I could . . . wait for it.  Ask someone.”

 "I could ask Allison.  She could ask her dad.”  Scott nodded, and for a guy who was broken up with a girl who was dating another girl and while Allison was in theory dating someone else entirely, he looked way too excited.

 "Or you know, maybe I could ask Derek.  He usually knows that kind of thing, and it means less complications, though there may be eye rolling. It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”  Stiles refused to face the irony of his own suggestion’s timing.

Scott scooped a sleeping cat’s litter and made another face.  “I guess.”

“It’s not that serious, just a downlow sort of thing.  That way we can keep tabs on him too, right?” Stiles followed it up. 

“Oh right, yeah,” Scott agreed, grinning.  “Good point.”

Oh yeah, he was going to get eye rolls.  At least they would be very hot eye rolls, and he would get to check up on Derek.  Derek would only really talk to him if there was a reason, after all.  So—better to have one, right?

Stiles took his time driving to the loft, but Derek's new mom-car wasn't there.  Stiles drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and debated waiting for him, but the loft didn't hold happy memories for Stiles, precisely.  He figured he could either drive around and chance upon Derek or go home and--well, yeah, no, he was going to drive around.  At least pretending that he might stumble on Derek was a good reason. 

His dad was working a double tonight, an extra shift that had nothing to do with supernatural deaths and everything to do with Deputy Madison having her baby.  There had been a baby shower with tiny blue handcuffs on everything, it had been seriously cute.  The BHSO had a Facebook page.  The pictures made it up there, plus Stiles' dad brought him a leftover cupcake. 

The sun was starting to set when Stiles turned up the road into the Preserve.  There was always a chance Derek was out at the house, even if it was the most depressing place Stiles could imagine being. He tried to imagine, once, if his dad died in a fire and then the idea of squatting in the same house . . .?  Yeah, no.   

But there was the mom-car, parked out front, a good distance from the front porch that was sagging even more noticeably than it had been months ago.  Derek had to know Stiles was here, so he got out of the jeep and headed inside, wishing he could sniff out manpain to locate Derek accurately.  He couldn't, though, so he called, "Hey, Derek!"   

"Back here," came the answer, and Stiles followed it, stepping gingerly across blackened beams.  He found Derek in a back room, one held up on one side by a newish pine post.  The outer wall was gone, and there was blistered, blackened appliances all over.  The kitchen, Stiles guessed.  Somebody had long ago pried the door off the fridge, probably to keep a stupid kid from climbing in.  Derek had his hands in his pockets and was wearing a soft henley with the buttons open on top, showing off chest hair.  Not that Stiles was noticing. 

"I thought you were past this whole brooding in the ruins phase," Sitles found himself blurting.  Great.  The Adderall was _gone_ , man, _gone_. 

"I'm past it," Derek told him.  "Just visiting one more time." 

"One more time?" 

"Yeah."  Derek ran a finger across a stone countertop, blackened but gleaming underneath where his finger had dragged away the dirt. Granite or marble.  The Hales had been loaded.  "The county's going to come out and demolish it next week." 

"Shit, dude," Stiles said.  "I don’t know if I should say sorry or grats?" 

Derek shrugged a shoulder, looked at him.  "Didn't want any stupid kids to fall through the floor and die," he said, looking pointedly at Stiles feet. 

"Hey, I _very_ carefully picked a solidish path, man."  Derek sort of smirked, which made Stiles a bit uncomfortable because of the fact that _Derek could hear his heart and smell his semi_ , which, when confronted with chest hair and henley and smirk and history, well.  Pretty much Stiles walked around half-ready for a dicking that never came.  (Yet, his optimist brain supplied.) 

"Sure," Derek answered.  "What do you want, Stiles?" 

"Right now?  Like, a jar of Nutella, actually.  And maybe an Adderall."  He grinned. 

Derek rolled his eyes and ah yes.  There it was.  Just what he'd come to experience.

 Stiles kept grinning, and shuffled the side-and-toe of his foot across the stained tile, and then shrugged.  His face felt a little weird, stretchy maybe.  “You asked.  What I want, and what I came to ask—two different things, dude.  More like drove around aimlessly once I found out you weren’t at the loft, I guess is more accurate though.  You and your grumpy text answers.”

“I need to work on my out loud answers.” Derek folded his arms over his chest.

Stiles waved both his hands up in the air.  “I meant that they’re better in person!”

“That’s the problem.” Derek frowned, but his eyebrows raised just a smidge.

Oh shit, sarcasm brows!  Stiles felt a laugh punch out of him, a little explosion of air he was totally unprepared for.  “Then I’d have no reason to come bug you, and you’d have to come Batman it up all by yourself.”

“Thought you were Batman?” Derek pointed out, after a pause and what looked like an attempt to not react, or—whatever.  Stiles was not the wolf here.  Awkward shuffles did not come with scent explosions, just a weight shift and a look off.

 “Naw, that’s just cause Erica remembered nerd talk.”  Oh good, talking about dead people in a burned house.  “One day, I’ll make it to Robin status, just you wait.  Though no tights.  Not the short-shorts Robin.”

 “Trapeze Robin?” Derek dropped is folded arms.

 Stiles gaped.  “We refer to him as _Nightwing_ now.”

 “Not when he was wearing short-shorts.”

 “We are not—since when did you know anything about comics—”

 “That’s not exactly _obscure,_ Stiles.”

 “It’s not exactly—”

 Derek held up a hand, palm up—and looked around, wolfing out even as he took a deep breath in.  Stiles snapped his mouth shut and froze, eyeballs feeling like they were bouncing around in his skull while he looked without moving, then started to swivel his head too.  The air felt _thick._

“What did you come to ask about?” Derek whispered, his voice almost too quiet to be heard.

 But Stiles could hear it, hear it just fine—but everything outside had gone silent, and so.  Yeah.  “The cats—one in particular—at Deaton’s was acting weird.  Standoffish.  But they’ve all had a kind of shift in behavior, apparently, grumpy--recently.  So.  Was wondering if that was like, an urban legend or a real sign or if this is a case of Scott not knowing how to wolf-sense it out right, but he can’t admit that, and I probably shouldn’t have either, oh well just did.  Are you smelling something?”

 “I always smell something.  But—” Derek took another deep pull of air through his nose.

 Stile tried not to think about how beta form face was probably not supposed to be hot, and teeth, and.  No, stop.  _Bad timing.  Think about Pringles.  The cat!  Scared cat!_ Okay.  “But?”

 “Animals definitely sense things.  Unnatural occurrences.  But natural ones, too—And.  Sometimes we get them as well, but we get them in ways that.  Filter through our humanity.  We miss them.” Derek spit the words out, quick sentences, but also seemed reluctant to _explain_. 

 “Are you starting to not miss something?” Stiles tried to pretend his heartrate had not _just_ spiked hard enough to knock the remains of the roof into ashes and splinters.

 Derek finally looked at him, eyes shining blue in the dark, ashy room.  “We need to get out of here, now.  Shut up for a minute--Trust me, okay?”

 What?  Shut up and--“Okay, okay—let’s--” 

 But no, Derek was already moving, picking his steps and grabbing Stiles’ arm to pull him along, too, and fast.  Before they were three steps along, though—

 The world lurched.  The whole house groaned, deep and wooden, and then deep below, a harsh grinding noise screamed.  Ash and dust peeled off the walls, making waves in the air.

 “Earthquake!” Stiles yelled, right in Derek’s pointy wolfy ear.

 “No shit!” Derek yelled back.

 Then the ground beneath them was _gone._

 Stiles' arm was still in Derek's hand, so he clung with this other arm for something solid, realizing only belatedly that it was _Derek_ he ended up clinging to.  They were falling, they were _falling_ , and Derek--Stiles later would realize that Derek tried to _throw him clear_ , but because Stiles was clinging, and there was nowhere to go anyway, it didn't work.  Stiles' world spun, and then he was on his back, all the terrified breath knocked out of him, watching the world fall down over Derek's shoulders. 

Because Derek was on top of him, teeth bared and eyes bright and bracing against whatever was under Stiles and. 

And making a cave, of sorts, under his own body, into which Stiles was mostly curled, except his left leg, which _erupted_ in pain the moment he became aware of it.  Stiles screamed behind his teeth; there was so much dust and ash in the air that he didn't want to inhale, didn't want to--and then he did, and started coughing, and-- 

Derek _growled_. 

The growl hit something animal in Stiles' hindbrain, some tiny beleaguered prey instinct that made him go still and silent in the presence of a predator.  He whimpered, unable to help himself, and blinked up through the gloom.  The only light was Derek's bright eyes.   

"The house fell on us," Derek told him. "You--be _still_ , Stiles, you have to be still." 

"Oh my god," Stiles said in a tiny, small voice, afraid that if he was too loud it would bring something down.  "Derek, Derek my leg's crushed, it's _crushed_ \--" 

"I know."  The debris above Derek shifted, and Stiles held his breath, sure they were about to be crushed.  "Touch my arm, Stiles, I can't move.  Just--be slow." 

Stiles' arms were held close to his own chest, but slowly, he reached out, fingertips gingerly reaching for and finding Derek's body, what he thought was Derek's pectoral muscles, and normally he'd be _thrilled_ about getting in a touch but right now?  He was hurting so much his pulse was thumping in his eyes and he thought he might pass out, and he was terrified.  But his hand traced along Derek's body in the dark, down his arm, which was tight as _steel_ , and then his hand curled around Derek's wrist, which was planted on whatever hard, filthy surface was beneath Stiles' body.  Derek inhaled, and . . . the pain lessened, immediately, and Stiles could _think_. 

"My cell phone's in my pocket," Stiles said.  "Oh my god we're buried alive." 

"Get your phone," Derek told him.  "Mine's in my back pocket.  Probably very broken right now." 

"Right, okay."  Stiles reached with his other hand, not thinking about what this was costing Derek--trusting Derek to know his own limits. Had to, at this point.  The air between them was already growing hot and humid.  Stiles found his phone, pulled it out and saw--no signal, limited battery.  He aimed the light away from Derek's eyes and turned on the flashlight. Derek hissed in irritation, but Stiles could see—and wished he couldn't.

 The pocket of space they were in was—was too small.  He actually couldn’t see much besides the little cage of space between him and Derek, and he felt like he could see the _air_ with how thick it was with dust.  Stiles sealed his mouth shut and held his breath again, keeping the urge to cough again trapped in his chest where it beat wildly a few times before he got ahold of it.  Derek was holding up—a lot.  And there was blood trickling down Derek’s sides, thick and red and dripping into a pool beside them.

 Stiles couldn’t see his own leg, the one that felt—now dimly—like wrong and bad and crush.  He couldn’t see anything really besides the tiny space between them. 

 Shit.

  _Shit._

 At least there wasn’t _that._ In times of panic and emergency, sometimes people lost control of functions that were usually voluntary and— _Not now brain omg._

 Stiles clamped his hand over his own mouth to muffle the ridiculous laugh that threatened to leap out and steal their air.  Derek grunted, and shifted his grip, and Stiles looked up at his still-blue eyes, cause they sort of drew attention like whoa. 

 “Sorry.  Nervous ridiculous thoughts.  Um.  Okay.”  Stiles flicked the light off.  “I can’t see anything.  You can’t see anything.  We need to think.”

 “You’re the plan guy.”  Derek grumbled.  Strain was clear in his voice, and Stiles squeezed his wrist.

 “This is a new situation!”  Stiles shut his mouth again.  Conserving air.  Air.  Okay.  He flicked the light back on.  “Gonna see if we have any air flow with all this dust.  Hold your breath, gonna stir up the dust.”

 Derek sucked in air through his nose, and Stiles did too.  The he braced himself mentally, let go of Derek’s wrist—Derek made a low, unhappy noise at that as if he somehow hadn’t _realized but what other hand was Stiles going to use god come on—_

And Stiles flapped that hand madly, pouring all of his sudden searing pain into the motion.  It was maybe too vigorous, because his chest felt _tight_ when he grabbed Derek’s wrist again.  He watched the dust move and could _feel_ Derek alternating glares at him and the dust in turn.  Seriously.  It was like a physical poking right in the skull.

 Or maybe that was from holding his breath _and_ the pain behind his teeth.  Fun question for later! 

 The dust swirled, and stuck to oh shit okay, apparently he’d cried, cause there were sticky spots down the corners of Stiles’ eyes now, but.  But.  The dust _also_ wafted and danced and skittered through the air off to the side, opposite side of Stiles’ trapped leg.  Stiles awkwardly shined the light that way, and saw a hole he’d previously mistaken for matte black ashy beam.  It was a hole about the side of his hand, and down by Derek’s side near his hip, but—

 “I see a hole. I think it’s in a blind spot for you.  Down here.”  Stiles put the phone light out again.  “Sorry, gonna tap your side.”  And he did, side first, then hip—hi jeans.  Nowhere _bad,_ but it was Derek, so.  “Hole about the side of my hand spread out.  Couldn’t see how big the other side is.  Um.  Might not be much.  But.  Holes mean air might.  Pass through.  Or—pockets.”

"There were caves all around the house," Derek told him.  "Tunnels.  From--from a long time ago, doesn't matter.  Listen--I don't know how long I can hold this." 

"You are being such a badass right now," is what tumbled out of Stiles' mouth.  "I gotta--I gotta get my leg out."  That was the awful and horrifying truth of it, because it was going to _hurt_ , and there was the very real possibility that he might not walk again.  And not just because they might die under Derek's burned out old house.  "Did somebody know you were here?" 

"Your dad," Derek said, surprising the hell out of Stiles.  "I went to the station to sign the paperwork, told him I was going to come out one more time." 

"Okay.  That's--okay."  And maybe his dad would come and check on Derek, and see Stiles' jeep, and.  "I still.  I need to move my leg and.  And maybe see if that hole can, if I can make it bigger." 

"Moving stuff might make everything fall." 

"If we don't try it and just stay here, we're dead, right?"  Stiles' voice was surprisingly level.  He turned his head and pressed his forehead to Derek's forearm.  "You can't hold that up forever, big guy." 

Derek made a wounded noise.  "I'll do as much as I can for you," he said. 

"I know," and there wasn't a lie anywhere in Stiles' voice.  "Okay.  Let me look again."  He turned on the flashlight one more time, and looked at where his leg was trapped.  It was his lower leg, which was bent at a frankly nauseating angle from his thigh.  "There's like a.  A space?  like a crack.  Can you see it?" 

Carefully, Derek turned his head, sending a fine sifting of dust into Stiles' face.  "I see it."  Derek told him.  Carefully again, Derek shifted his feet, wedging his boot into the crack of the debris holding Stiles' leg.  "I don't have enough leverage. It's just going to be--maybe an inch, you're going to _have_ to pull it out yourself." 

"Yeah," Stiles said, trying so hard to pretend like he wasn't about to vomit.  God, don't puke.  That would be the worst right here and now.  Wouldn't blame Derek at all for letting things crush them if he did puke.  Ugh.  "Okay.  On, um, on three?" 

"On three," Derek said.  "One.  Two.  _Three_ \--" 

The pressure on Stiles' leg lifted, and the pain lessened.  Stiles held his breath, and _lurched_ to the side, dragging his leg out of the hole.  He screamed, actually screamed, because he could _feel his bone_ and it was outside his skin and he was going to throw up, he was.  There was a thump as Derek let the debris down again, and Stiles was still crying, because the pain was so exquisite-- 

Until Derek started taking his pain again.  "Stiles, Stiles, hey, come on, I need you here, Stiles, calm down--" 

It took a while, but Stiles calmed by degrees.  He was on his side under Derek now, one leg curled up, the other one, the _broken one_ had been wrenched out and was laying over the whole one.  He turned the light back on, enough to see the tendrils of black up Derek's arm, to see the puddle of blood had grown and, terrifyingly, Derek's arm was trembling a little.  He turned the light off. 

"Next step," Stiles said, voice raw.  "Next step is seeing if I can get that hole bigger." 

Derek barked a laugh, a short one.  "Hey," Derek said.  "If we get out of here, I want to take you to dinner."

Stiles' eyes widened in the dark.  " _What_."

 “You heard me.”  Derek said.  He sounded sure . . . mostly.  A little challenging.

 Stiles sucked in a breath, and felt dust coat the back of his throat.  He could still feel his heart pounding in his chest, and decided it needed to keep doing that.  Definitely.  “What’s this _if_ business, that’s what I meant.  Definitely.  Uh-huh.”

 Derek puffed out a breath. “Oh right.  Take showers first.”

 “Change clothes.  Yep.”  Stiles agreed.  He closed his eyes, trying to picture—getting out, it being fine.  Maybe he closed them for too long, because—

 “Stiles.  _Stiles—_ ” Derek did not sound like he was picturing getting out.

 He sucked in a breath.  “Yeah—just thinking, sorry.” 

 “We have to get moving.” Derek said again.  “Stay _with me._ ”

 “I know—yeah.  I’m trying to figure out how—okay.”  Forget it.  There was going to be the hard way, because that’s how they rolled. 

 Stiles curled and bumped Derek, and bumped his own horror-leg, and screamed behind his teeth, but.  But he pushed his hands both against the hole he’d seen, and started feeling.  Careful pats and just—groping the dark really.  _Please, please, please—_

 “Please.”  Derek’s voice echoed—oh okay, he’d been saying that out loud.

 “Please, please, please—” Stiles continued on, both of them did, quietly muttering it as Stiles felt, and screamed a little when he had to stretch out and the movement jarred the ruin of his leg.  He had his eyes squashed closed, and they felt like gritty lines stitched onto his face.

 He remembered, weirdly, the line of mountain ash.  Belief, right?  Not the same thing, but maybe he could fool himself into thinking that.  What could it hurt?  They’d die if it failed, just like the moving the debris or staying put until Derek’s arms gave out.

 So Stiles opened his eyes again, and instead of just feeling, _pushed_ the edges of the hole.  They were going to get out, damn it.  They’d fallen too far to be cellar, this had to be a sinkhole or a cave.  And he was going to get them out—they were going to get _out—_

 Something warm surged through Stiles' chest, through his palms.  Derek wasn't pulling his pain out right now, but Stiles felt it slacken anyway.  He focused again, on the idea of _out_ , on the surety of it.  The warmth blossomed in his chest, grew and grew until he felt like he had to let it out, had to let it just _go_ or it was going to burst, _he_ was going to burst, and-- 

And he let it out.  Let it go on his exhale, and it felt like wind, like he was where wind came from, and Stiles passed out to bright, bright light. 

::::::::::::::::::: 

He woke to beeping, to pain, to fluorescent buzzing, and to his father holding his hand. 

Stiles looked blearily around, then shot upright, startling his father.  "Derek!" Stiles demanded.  His leg _screamed_ at him and he fell backwards with a cry. 

"Hey, hey," John said, standing up and looming over him.  "Hey, calm down, don't move, I've gotcha." 

" _Derek_ , where's Derek, he was down there with me-"  Stiles' hand curled in his father's shirt, a t-shirt, and it was damp at the collar, as though John had just taken a shower.   

"He's fine," John told him.  "He's at the house." 

"The house _fell down_ on us." 

John rolled his eyes.  "At _our_ house.  The loft building burned down." 

"Not a great track record _oh my god_ I said that." 

"You're on the good stuff," John told him, leaning down to fluff his pillow, which was ineffectual. 

"I'm going on a _date_ ," Stiles told him.  "With _Derek_." 

John froze.  Stiles froze.  "Can.  Can you pretend I didn't say that?" 

"No," John answered.  "I really don't think I can."  And he leaned down to kiss Stiles' forehead.  "I'm going to get your nurse."

 “How—wait.  Never mind.  Oh shit—sorry, sorry—is the good stuff not spiked with Adderall?  I guess not, fuuuu—” Stiles snapped his mouth shut.

 His dad patted his shoulder.  “And that’s why we’re going to talk again, later.  Definitely.  Though we may talk earlier, too, now that I realize how truthful you’re apparently being.”

 “Confessions under the influence are not admissible!” Stiles protested.  “Rude!”  But he was already getting tired.  “Dad, you’re okay, and—are other people okay?”  Maybe he’d just—take a nap.  Yeah.  The nurse could check out his snoozing. 

 “A lot of people aren’t.  But no one died, and that’s—that’s a real win.  Lots of property damage, but nothing catastrophic.”  John looked relieved at that.

 Which meant—it was long enough to _know that kind of thing._ “How long was I out?” Sleep was definitely sneaking up already, which.  No fair.  Then again, his leg still had little throbs of _but why did you move_ going on, and.

 “You were brought in yesterday.  You were sleeping really hard—they weren’t sure why, since your head was completely fine.  But apparently, strain can do that.  And they would have had to knock you out anyway—your leg.  Pretty bad.”  John looked down at it, and then found and squeezed Stiles’ hand.

 Stiles squeezed back.  “You want to get my nurse, or a nurse, you might wanna.  I’m going to sleep again any second.  Apparently, strain, right?”

 “Does it hurt?”  John asked.  He didn’t move though, which—that defeated the purpose of what Stiles just said.  Maybe he was supposed to ask it.

 “Yeah, yeah definitely.  Itchy.”  Stiles made sure to make a face, and John rewarded him with a little grin.

 “Go ahead and sleep then.  I’m sure you’ll be woken up if they really need you.”

 “You got it, Dad.” Stiles decided to appreciate sleeping, considering how little of it he had gotten so recently, and hard left turned into _nope not right now_ and let himself start to drift off again.  Oh wait—“Tell everyone hi.  And don’t grill Derek please.  Saved my life.”

 Then he was out again.  So he wouldn’t have to see or hear the answer.  Strategy!

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next time he woke, he felt better and like he might stay conscious for a while.  His dad was gone, but the nurse said he'd just run to get some food and would be back soon.  Stiles drifted a bit, thinking back to the cave Derek made for him, the strain of it, and wished he could see Derek, to see with his own eyes that Derek was really okay. 

And apparently the universe was really into granting his wishes lately, because when somebody knocked on the doorframe, it was Derek.  Stiles grinned at him, at least he hoped it was a grin, and gave him a thumbs up.  Derek entered the room, not limping, or in any way showing physical strain.  He was still wearing a soft henley, and his jean were clean, and he just.  He looked good.   

"You look so good," Stiles told him, mortifyingly.  "Like somebody that would be in a magazine ad for puppies or ruggedly soft hand towels." 

Derek's mouth dropped open, and he gaped at Stiles for a moment, then covered his face.  His shoulders shook a little. 

"Oh-em-gee," Stiles said.  "Did I make you cry?" 

"No, no."  Derek looked at him, and his eyes were so bright and pretty.  "I am pretty sure you just got a dose of morphine, you are _high_ , I should come back later." 

"Nooooooooo."  Stiles reached out and hooked a finger in his sleeve.  "I mean that explains why my leg feels like it isn't there.  Which is a, a great thing for my leg to be doing right now.  But stay, stay, okay?  What _happened_ , how'd you get us out?" 

"Stiles," Derek said, coming closer.  He actually _held Stiles' hand_.  "You _got us out_.  You--you got this look on your face, and all that dust?  It _stopped moving_. Everything did."  Stiles listened to him tell this story, feeling a bit dissociated from it.  He had no memory of it at all, after the blooming heat, the distant sensation of the sun rising in his chest, maybe, his own private dawn.  "Then your eyes _turned gold_.  And then we were on the grass near your jeep, and I--may have run all the way into town with you."

 Stiles stared, long enough that his eyes felt dry, and then realized his cheeks hurt, cause he was smiling too wide.  “You ran all the way into town with me.  You _like me._   Really.”  He also decided to grip Derek’s hand back, so Derek wouldn’t change his mind.  That was totally how holding hands worked, wasn’t it?

 Derek looked pointedly down, at their hands.  He was not trying to get away.  “Somehow.” 

 “Do you want a drink of water?” Stiles had to ask.  “That was pretty dry.”

 “I’m considering changing my mind,” Derek said.

 “No, you’re not.”  Stiles did not stop beaming.  Yeah, he was apparently _high. “_ Are my eyes dilated?”

 “The opposite, actually.” Derek leaned forward to look, which he definitely did not have to do.  He was also probably risking Stiles’ hospital swamp breath, which.  Wow.

 “We made it out.  My eyes turned gold.  Like wolf gold, or what?” Stiles bounced back to the rest of what he’d said.

 “ _What_ , I guess,” Derek said.  “Or—spark gold?  Had you done anything else, after that—the mountain ash thing, outside the club?”

 “I had no idea anyone else remembered that, but then again, I didn’t tell anyone else.”

 Derek’s face did a very interesting thing, a mix of surprise and confusion and hand squeezing, which was technically not a face thing, but lissen, _morphine._

 Stiles continued, “Nothing else not really—okay other than holding up the cellar with my baseball bat, but that was probably the bat.  I was thinking about it, though.  The mountain ash thing.  Belief.  When we were under—when we were stuck.  I thought—what could it hurt?  To try.”

 “It saved our lives, probably,” Derek said.  “It did.”

 “You uh, technically did that first, big guy, take some credit.  You’re shit at that,” Stiles said.  “Also, providing motivation for my crushing—oh pun!—self.  Which you knew, did you know?  You meant it though, the date thing, help I’m high and I’ve lost what I was saying.”

 “Just a little.  But I think I get the idea.”  Now Derek actually grinned, and wow.  He looked so good.

 “You look so good.  Oh shit.  Sorry, but no, not sorry.  Seriously though, did you just—If that’s too much.  I can _not_ be answered, that’s okay.  I get it.  Awkward question.  But the date thing feels out of nowhere.”  Stiles felt compelled to flop his hand around, the not-holding-Derek’s-hand one, obviously.  “I care way more about this than magic teleportation at the moment.  My priorities are—straight is the _wrong word._ Bi-vergent?”

 “Please stop punning,” Derek groaned. 

 Derek groaning was not persuasive _stop punning_ motivation.

 “I did not need to know that,” Derek said.

  _Whoops._   “Wow, that was out loud.” Stiles observed.  “Oh well.”

 Derek's head dropped, and Stiles watched him for a solid ten seconds before he figured out that he was seeing Derek's cheekbones curving up in a smile, seeing Derek's shoulders shudder with a laugh.  "Oh man, no, look at me, let me see." 

Derek _did_ look up, and oh _man_ , "Oh shit, I am _gone_ for you, this is tragic, I'm going to have to defenestrate myself if you tell me asking me out was, was like a desperation move or--" 

"I wanted to," Derek told him, squeezing his hand.  "You didn't know?  That's good." 

" _How_ is that good.  How is that _possible_." 

"Stiles," Derek sounded amused, still, but there was color rising on his cheeks, and Stiles very subtly started counting his own fingers.  Five, yep, good good.  "I know there are mirrors in your house.  I know you've seen yourself.  No, don’t interrupt.  I--If I stop I won't--"  Derek sighed.  His hand tightened around Stiles', they were basically anacondaing each other.  "You're cute, okay, and smart and brave and you do not take any shit from me or anybody else." 

"I'm floating off this bed, hold me."  Stiles reached over with his other hand and curled it around Derek's ridiculous biceps.  Derek rolled his eyes, but the color on his cheeks wasn't going anywhere.  "You _like_ me." 

"Definitely reconsidering."  Derek grumbled it, but Stiles could tell-- 

"That's all bluster, big guy, I can tell, I know your bluster eyebrows--oh look, it's the eyebrow of incredulity, and that's the eyebrow of _with my teeth_ and--  Oh yeah, baby, laugh, do that." 

"You are fucking ridiculous," Derek told him, and it was an amazing sentence, Derek was amazing, Stiles was amazing, _morphine was amazing_. 

"You gonna kiss me?"  Stiles asked. 

"Am I going to kiss you for the first time while you're so doped up you're basically a stream of consciousness?  No, Stiles, I'm not." 

"Awwwww.  But why?  But also that sounds all _noble_ and touching and--you want me to be into it?" 

"I want you to remember it.  First of all."  Derek was still all grumbles.  Stiles figured they were probably just his vague-embarrassment grumbles, the kind he got when somebody told him things like _Thanks for saving me_.  His responses were usually things like _Don't be stupid next time_. 

"Awwwww," Stiles crooned at him.  He beamed, his cheeks hurt.  "So where are we going on our date?  When?"

 “I hadn’t gotten that far yet,” Derek said.  “When will be when you can walk out of here—or roll.  Have you even talked to a nurse or doctor yet?”

 “No!” Stiles was pretty proud of that.  “Fell asleep again before that happened.  I think they poked me some when I was out though, gave me more drugs.  I sat up when I first woke up, my leg said _hey, that was stupid,_ and it hurt.”

 “Of course it hurt, when we were running—Stiles—” Derek looked uncomfortable.

 Not allowed!  “Hey, hey.  The bone is back in now, right?  Am alive, one piece.  Unburied, even.  You _ran me into town,_ which.  Hey.  And apparently, I don’t even have a fever, which—wow, right?” Stiles pointed helpfully at the monitor readout, which did a fizzy thing for a second.  But his temperature was on it, and it was normal.  “How bad was your back and everything else torn up, even if you did heal it up?  Did that confuse the staff?”

 Derek fish mouthed, which was still somehow amazingly attractive.  Especially since open mouth and they were going on a date, and Stiles did not have to be _so guilty_ about thinking _Derek’s mouth,_ and the gutter was right there, and—apparently he was too drugged to pop a boner, convenient! 

 “Yes, it confused the staff, but they were busy, and Melissa McCall was helping direct intake, while also taking someone’s temperature, and yelling at a doctor.”  He paused.  “What exactly does she do?  She seems to do—everything?”

 “She _does_ do everything, don’t think about it too hard.  Just accept that she is superwoman, but doesn’t need a cape,” Stiles said.

 “Thanks, Stiles.  And _wow,_ John wasn’t kidding about the good stuff,” Melissa said as she came in, apparently having learned to stealth, because Derek _blinked in surprise_. 

 Derek also flexed his fingers as if deciding whether or not to take his hand back, and Stiles felt a _no_ that must have shown, because the flex turned into a squeeze.  The _no_ turned into a _yay._

 Melissa came around to the other side of the bed.  “Hello again, Derek.  Glad to see you—all together.”

 Stiles watched her smile, and Derek duck his head, and look like, younger.  “Thanks.  I guess—things are calmer?”

 Melissa laughed, and checked the charting of Stiles’ apparently copious amount of morphine, with raised eyebrows.  “Things are never exactly calm, but they’re less hectic.  I guess that counts.” 

 "How's Scotty?"  Stiles asked her.  "Has he been here?  Did I miss him?" 

"He came by right after you were stabilized," Melissa said.  "But he's been helping Deaton with the emergency vet clinic he had to set up, so he's been really busy. He's called to check on you a lot, though, so I know he's worried about you." Melissa touches Stiles' cheek, smiled at him.  Stiles was helpless to smile back; he'd known Melissa since he was six, and loved her, and-- 

"You should date my dad," Stiles said, then, horrified, clapped his free hand over his mouth. 

Melissa was red now, too, which made all three of them. 

"Right, well, I'm going to be merciful and not hold anything you say against you while you're under the influence," she told him, patting his cheek one more time before snapping on a glove do to nursey things to him.  "You want Derek to go while I check your wound?" 

"Naw he can stay, he's gonna be seeing a lot of me soon."  And Stiles waggled his eyebrows. 

Derek's eyes were huge and scared and he just said, "Uh." 

"Too fast?"  Stiles asked with real concern.  "Sorry, sorry, I promise to honor your boundaries, promise, just, you know, consider me an open border.  Border, boundary, same thing!" 

"Jesus Christ, please stop talking," Derek begged him. 

Melissa choked on what Stiles was pretty sure was a laugh.   

Stiles got to see his leg for the first time.   Under the sheet, he hadn't really paid attention, and now that he could see it, he was a little horrified to see _metal_ sticking out of his leg.  Melissa told him that they'd had to set the bone and pin it in place.  He'd been given intravenous antibiotics, and it seemed to be working well.  He wasn't sick.  He was, apparently, in for a long healing process and maybe even physical therapy. 

John came back as Melissa was finishing up, carrying a cup of coffee.  He stopped in the door and smiled at Melissa--then pointedly looked at Derek and Stiles holding hands.  Derek stood up quickly and took a step back from the bed.  Stiles reached out for him but noooo Derek was gone, and Dad was doing his . . . protective father look. 

"My hand was being held, Dad," Stiles said.  "It was very sweet, and nice, and gentlemanly, and _comforting_." 

"Be gentle," Melissa told John on her way out, patting his bicep. 

 They should totally date.  Dad closed the door over.  Uh-oh.  Hey.  “Dad.  Did you guys talk about what happened?  I think—I’m not sure what I said when I woke up.  But the house fell on us.”

 “Why were you there to begin with, by the way?”  John asked.  He still wore his uniform, but his radio was on so low that Stiles could barely hear the crackle when he sat down where Derek had been.  He needed at the other chair in the room, banished to the far corner, on the bed’s other side.  “Why don’t you pull that one up, Derek.”

 “Yes, sir,” Derek was using serious, no sarcasm eyebrows.  He glanced at Stiles for a second when he pulled the chair over, and oh.

 Right.  “Oh, so you can see both of us and see if we lie or conspire!” Stiles said.  “Got it!”

 John laughed, sighed, and shook his head in some kind of trifecta of _my kid._ It was an expression Stiles had been seeing since he was old enough to understand expressions, and it made him grin.

 “Son, why were you out there at the house that collapsed?  I know why Derek was out there.  I didn’t even realize you two kept in touch,” John said.  He looked between them.

 Derek was sitting very still, and apparently trying to be respectful.  He looked kind of uptight in a way that made Stiles think about— _Hey no,_ Dad alert.

 “Pringles!” Stiles blurted.  “Pringles was acting weird.  Her kittens. All the cats.”

 “Pringles.  Okay, go on—”

 “I am!  So, was gonna ask Derek, cause he knows _stuff_ about _things._  The internet is not always reliable, Dad.  Also it was sort of an excuse, t-b-h.  I started out going over to the loft, and since he wasn’t there and texting is not always successful, I drove over to the house and hey!  So I went in, and talking, and eventually we talked about Pringles and then he _sensed_ the earthquake but whoops, too late.  Then we crashed through, and Derek totally twisted us so everything fell on him, and he held everything up.”

 “And—” John looked across at Derek.  “Derek did mention that you’d fallen in debris, and that you’d figured out a way for you two to get out.  He took you to the hospital.  But he didn’t say _how._ ”

 “Dad, did he say how he ran with me allll the way here?”  Stiles did not care if his grin was goofy, even if his dad looked _so pained_ and _so amused_ both at the same time. 

 “I heard from Melissa that he burst into the ER with your bone sticking out of your leg and his back a mass of blood,” John said.

 “Isn’t that _awesome?_ ”

 “It seems a little misguided.” John pulled his version of the dadly eyebrow raise.  _Judgy._

“How bad were the roads?” Stiles fired back.

 John sighed, and Stiles fist pumped.  “It was awesome.” Stiles concluded.

 “Stiles, how _did_ you get out of the debris.  The house was _on you._ You were in a panic when you woke up,” and now John was picking concern tactics. 

 “Apparently magic.  We found a hole, via breath holding and hand flapping, and I pulled my leg out and Derek sapped my pain some so I wouldn’t pass out, which—while holding up a lot of stuff—”

 John did not look happy to hear that, but probably because of the pass out part.  Hey, he asked!

“And then I started thinking really hard about getting out, and this one time I made something out of nothing, and I thought, oh _this’d be a good repeat._ And then I woke up here.  Tada!”  Stiles paused.  “Probably a bad sound effect choice, sorry.”

“You’re not,” Derek said.

“Yeah, not really,” Stiles admitted.  He smiled at Derek, and it lasted a little bit too long, maybe.

“So you two—talk regularly.  In addition to the rest of the wolf business, it’s not just—things happen.  And when.  Did the magic something out of nothing start?”  John sounded careful.  It sort of killed the buzz a little. 

 “Oh, you—it’s not the nogitsune.  It was way before that, like.  When Jackson was lizard breathing it up and didn’t know it.”  Stiles waved his hand.  His hand that just happened to flop-land right near Derek.  “Listen, it’s been a busy year.  We talked about all that.  The point.  The point is that I’ve liked Derek a long time but thought he didn’t know, or um, was being nice about it. More like the last one.  He’s a good guy.  Like literally.  Like tv or movie or comic style—good guy.  Good.”

 Derek slowly lowered his head into his hands.  "Please stop talking," he said again.  Stiles blinked at him, then reached over and petted his head. 

"I'm going for a hair touch," he said, before his hand made contact.  Derek just sighed and went with it.  Stiles petted him some, and looked over at his dad.  "You don't have to worry, Dad, I'm not gonna pressure him into anything." 

"That is--the opposite of what I was worried about?  And the opposite of the usual scenario."  Dad was watching Stiles' petting hand like it was alien.  Stiles kept up the petting, though, 'cause Derek's hair wasn't gelled and it felt all soft and nice.  "I mean--Derek, you're what, twenty-four?" 

"Twenty-two," Derek said into his palms.   

"Really?"  John made a _huh_ noise and Stiles beamed at him.   

"He just looks extra manly," Stiles said with a grin that was maybe more leer than he intended. 

John stared at Stiles a moment.  "Okay," he said, more slowly.  "We'll talk more about this later.  But--magic.  You're--you can do magic, huh?" 

"Yep."  Stiles tried to tap his toes together and immediately regretted it, turning white and covering his face with his free hand.  Then, Derek captured the hair-hand in his own, and the pain abated.  Stiles looked over to see Derek's eyes bright blue, black rolling up his arm.  "Dude, you don't have to, that was just me being stupid, it's okay." 

"So quit being stupid," Derek said in a mumble, with a nervous glance at John. 

John had a look on his face Stiles couldn't quite interpret.  Stiles felt a little betrayed when John said, "If you can get him to stop being stupid, you can date him." 

"Hey!"  Stiles protested. 

"Them's the rules, kid," John told him.  "No more being stupid and-or heroic, I don't need you to be a hero.  I need you to grow up first." 

Stiles gaped.  "You're holding my relationship hostage."  He narrowed his eyes.  "I truly am your son."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! We hope that you've enjoyed this little fic.


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